


When a Demon Dreams

by OsheenNevoy



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15938927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OsheenNevoy/pseuds/OsheenNevoy
Summary: A relatively "Plot? What plot?" encounter between two of Cardinal Richelieu's most highly-valued agents--although hopefully it contains character-development elements as well, and I believe and hope that it's not out-of-character.





	When a Demon Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: The title of this piece is inspired by the title of Chapter 62 of The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas: “Two Varieties of Demons.” That chapter focuses on a conversation between two of Cardinal Richelieu’s agents, Milady de Winter and the Comte de Rochefort.

When Milady de Winter strolled into the Comte de Rochefort’s office, she announced, “I am frustrated as hell. Would you care for a fuck while awaiting your audience with His Eminence?”

Rochefort raised an eyebrow. He didn’t spare much thought for the other part of him which was also currently rising. That part usually did rise, at least slightly, whenever Milady was nearby, so the experience was nothing new. He stood up from behind his desk in order to demonstrate that he felt no need to conceal his response.

“My dear Milady,” he said, “I am sorry that the absence from Paris of my charming cousin de Wardes has left you with an itch which is so difficult to scratch.”

The astonishing blonde beauty took off her ridiculously large plumed hat and slapped it down atop Rochefort’s desk. She then, with seemingly impossible grace, mounted the desk herself, slithering onto it and half-reclining there with an ease that looked entirely unfeasible considering the volume of skirts and petticoats which, by the ordinary laws of nature, ought to be hampering her movements.

“Don’t be sorry, Rochefort,” Milady told him. “Be useful. Are you going to scratch this itch for me, or shall I pay a visit to Captain La Houdiniere instead?”

As much as Rochefort considered himself a friend of the worthy captain of the Cardinal’s Guards, he saw no reason why it should be La Houdiniere instead of he who reaped the benefits of Milady’s frustration. He stepped toward his desk, pressing his thighs almost painfully against the edge of it and enjoying the fact that his groin was now only an inch away from Milady’s profusion of skirts.

“Let us clearly comprehend the terms of this encounter, Milady,” said Rochefort. “Am I correct in assuming we take part in this activity with the understanding that no bothersome emotional entanglements are involved, and that if I presume so far as to expect any reoccurrence, I will find myself most bitterly disappointed?”

“Naturally you are correct, Comte,” answered Milady, batting her eyelashes at him and leaning forward so that her breasts looked distractingly likely to burst forth from her bodice. “You wouldn’t want it any way, would you?”

“Naturally not,” the comte replied. “Those poor fools who become emotionally entangled with you have a distressing tendency to turn up dead.”

Milady reached up and rubbed one forefinger over the scar on his temple. That gesture from her made Rochefort smile, even though the scar tissue was dead to sensation and he could not feel her finger as it touched him there. He enjoyed the thought that she was touching a part of him which most people tried to act like they weren’t noticing. For his part, he ran one thumb across Milady’s luscious mouth. He was rewarded by feeling her pearly teeth biting down on his thumb, hard enough to hurt.

His hands took a brief journey to her breasts. They popped out from her bodice’s low neckline just as readily and enticingly as he had imagined they would. Left to his own devices, Rochefort would have devoted a good deal of hand-and-mouth time to those two exquisite objects, so firm and yet so delectably squeezable. Those breasts could have kept him occupied for a far longer time than Milady was willing to grant him.

He had no chance, of course, to entertain himself in that manner. A certain impatient squirm of hers warned him that Milady was not among those women who derive satisfaction from attention being lavished on their breasts.

Kissing came next, and their tongues fenced briefly with each other. It became readily apparent that kissing was not Milady’s favorite activity either, though Rochefort had no doubt that she could kiss all day and all night if her duty or her personal ambitions required it.

Milady broke from their kiss to sit back on the desk, grinning at him. Her legs were spread wide apart, although they still were guarded by her phalanxes of skirts and petticoats.

In the opinion of the Comte de Rochefort, his fellow confidential agent of Richelieu made an amazingly lewd and appealing picture. She sat on his desk with spread legs and teasing grin, her flowing lace collar askew and her bare breasts gleefully reveling in their popped-forth-from-the-top-of-the-bodice glory.

“Monsieur le Comte,” Milady said, “you have a job to do. I expect you to get on with it.”

Her words had by no means been chosen at random. Milady well knew that those words had almost the strength of a magic charm when spoken to the Comte de Rochefort. She was thoroughly aware of the pride he took in accomplishing the tasks assigned to him, and in accomplishing them in a skilled and efficient manner.

Rochefort believed this trait was what endeared him to the Cardinal as a particularly trusted servant—although he had never displayed his skill and efficiency to His Eminence in the manner in which he was about to display it to Milady.

Rochefort knelt by his desk and plunged his head into the foaming mass of fabric. It occurred to him that Milady’s skirts and petticoats were like ocean foam—as frothy and voluminous as the foam around that giant clamshell boat the goddess Venus apparently enjoyed riding around in.

He would have shifted all those yards of cloth out of the way. But Milady, it seemed, preferred trapping him inside it. So the hard-working comte set his tongue to work on his colleague’s cunt, his head and upper body hidden beneath a massive frill-bedecked tent. His position took on extra awkwardness when her legs snaked over his shoulders and twined together behind his neck, shoving his face against her with a force that was frankly alarming.

Whilst he worked with diligence, the thought struck Rochefort that he’d never imagined he might be smothered or strangled to death underneath a woman’s skirts, smashed into her cunt by legs that were confining him with Herculean strength.

He told himself without much certainty, _I can get out of this if I have to._ He considered himself a man of reasonable strength; he ought to be able to break free of her grip if his life depended on it. Though he wasn’t at all convinced that he felt comfortable wagering his survival on that likelihood.

 _Scratch that itch for her quickly, my dear comte,_ he ordered himself. _That is the swiftest and safest means of getting yourself out of this._

It appeared, thank God, that his ministrations were having their intended effect. This did not, however, necessarily mean that he was saved. The grip of her legs grew even tighter. He started to wonder if he could achieve her desire before she did him irreparable damage.

Milady was now writhing about on his desk, and Rochefort decided it was only fair for him to hold her in place a bit. Even in his perilous position, he enjoyed the sensations as he grabbed hold of her buttocks and meted out to them some ferociously forceful kneading. He permitted his fingernails far freer rein than he would otherwise have done, as minor retaliation against the fact that she was suffocating him.

Being shrouded in all those skirts and petticoats did not prevent him from hearing that Milady was swearing. She swore a series of creatively fascinating oaths that made him hope he could retain consciousness long enough to hear all of them.

Apparently, at times like this, Milady de Winter swore in English. Rochefort himself was fluent in the English language. He needed to be, in his job. Flummoxing and foiling the English were frequent goals of the tasks he was assigned by His Eminence the Cardinal. Rochefort, however, did not tend to spend his time amongst the caste of Englishman who utilized the words Milady was now employing. He doubted that Milady’s late, unlamented English husband or her chronically disapproving brother-in-law had even heard most of the words she was presently casting forth.

From the sound of it, Milady spent her time in England conversing with the lowest class of English sailors. Conversing, Rochefort thought, with her legs in the air and her skirts flung over her head—always assuming that she didn’t just smother the sailors the way she was doing to him.

Of course, he knew very well that everything Milady did, she did with a clearly defined and goal-achieving purpose. It was likely she had chosen to employ this sailor-like vocabulary now on the theory that Rochefort would grow as stiff as a ramrod by imagining her fucking her way through an entire waterfront of sailors.

Growing as stiff as a ramrod was precisely what was happening to him. Indeed, his cock was imperiously demanding that he provide it some attention of its own. It stated in emphatic terms that it wished him to pump it to the same rhythm as his tongue was using on Milady de Winter’s cunt.

Rochefort stolidly ignored what his cock had to say to him. As he saw it, this was a question of self-preservation. If he showed that he was the slightest bit distracted from the cause of furthering Milady’s pleasure, it might turn out to be the last mistake he would make.

It gave him some satisfaction to learn that even the formidable Milady had a chink or two in her armor. When his fellow confidential agent at long last convulsed around his tongue, her vocabulary lost its originality. She switched back from English to French. In that madly pulsating moment, all Milady said was, “Ah, Rochefort, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Her legs relinquished their hold. Milady slumped back onto the desk, and Rochefort gratefully seized the opportunity to come up for air.

His colleague did not long remain sprawled on his desk. She sat up again with a smugly impudent smile. Leaning forward, she kissed Rochefort’s damp nose. “Good boy, Rochefort,” she said to him. “You have been a very good boy. And I believe that every good boy should receive a reward. Don’t you?”

“Indeed, Milady,” Rochefort answered. He felt impressed with himself that he’d found breath enough with which to speak. “This is that rare occasion on which I do not feel that service is its own reward.”

It should be no surprise to him, he told himself, that she took the lead in this as in nearly everything else. She shoved him backward to sit in his chair and then straddled him with the rapidity of some predatory beast. The speed and ease with which she popped his cock from out of his breeches showed she had plenty of practice in executing that particular maneuver.

Milady de Winter slid herself down onto him. Rochefort gasped at the sudden sensation of being sheathed in her hot, wet flesh.

His hands were gripping her firmly corseted waist, and her hands were pressing down on his shoulders. But the reality of their bodies’ actual locations soon held very little relevance for Rochefort’s mind.

 _This is madness,_ Rochefort told himself—in the first moment when, amidst his desperate upward thrusting, he could manage something resembling coherent thought. _Why do I feel that this fucking is different from every other fucking in my life? How can_ she _feel so different, to me, from what every other woman has got between her legs?_

He wondered if his odd thoughts could be at least partially traced to the recent lack of air in his lungs.

It wasn’t that her cunt was any different, he decided—as he should know, considering the amount of time he’d just spent with his face shoved into it. The difference lay in what she did with it.

Milady was moving on top of him. She moved in a way that seemed to match his own rhythm, and yet she somehow also moved in a different pattern, as if she could shift her whole body in two directions at once. The point-and-counterpoint melody she created made Rochefort feel like a boy being granted his first fuck. _Except,_ he thought, _except, thanks to all the saints, I am lasting longer than any boy on his first fuck has ever managed to do._

Rochefort’s eyes were closed and his head was flung back. And he suddenly realized that something truly peculiar was happening in his mind.

He saw before him the image of a glorious, sunny summer’s day. He saw himself, joyously running barefoot through the midst of a vast field of wildflowers.

 _Sangdieu_ , he wondered, _where in the devil’s name has that thought come from?_

He was almost entirely certain he had never run barefoot in a field of flowers; neither as a boy nor at any other era of his life. He was just about as certain that he had never even _wanted_ to run barefoot in a flowery field.

There is no excuse for this! he told himself. There was no excuse for the ridiculous thoughts that were dancing rings around his mind.

_She should not make me think of words like “bliss” and “eternal devotion.” I shouldn’t have the thought that I could spend unending hours just gazing into her eyes._

It was a revelation to him, this business of being fucked by Milady de Winter—for he could still think clearly enough to be aware of the fact that she was fucking him, not the other way around.

He understood that while he was inside her, he saw Milady as so many of her victims saw her. He saw the angel who would guide his destiny. He saw the saint whom he would worship and devote his life to protecting. He saw the pure and sweet-souled woman he would love for all of his days.

It took all the strength of his thoughts for him to keep hold of the knowledge of who she truly was—and the knowledge of who he was, as well. It took all his force of will to remember that every man who cared for her, she led to his doom.

Rochefort knew he had been saying things aloud, all the while as she rode him. With sudden shock he realized he had no idea what he’d been saying. His dread pierced through him like a sword’s point in the fear that his words might have exposed his thoughts.

 _Holy Virgin Mother,_ he prayed desperately, _don’t let me have spoken aloud what I’ve been thinking! Spare me from having spoken any words resembling “faithfulness” or “unending love!”_

Now that he had regained more awareness, he at least felt fairly well assured that he would not incriminate himself. The oaths and vulgarities he was uttering now did not, perhaps, make a great deal of sense. But they made far more sense than any promises of devotion, or any dreams of running barefoot through wildflowers.

“Corbleu,” he heard himself choke out. “Ah, mort du bon seigneur Dieu, Milady! You’re as hot and tight as the Blessed Virgin’s cunt!”

Milady chuckled at that, a low and purring sound. She inquired, “You have personal knowledge, do you, comte, of the Blessed Virgin’s cunt?”

He managed to answer her, “Only in an occasional daydream …”

“Well, my dear chevalier,” she told him, “I believe it is time for me to make your dreams come true.”

The Comte de Rochefort was not at all surprised to learn that Milady could cause him to finish just precisely when and how she wanted to. All it took was her leaning slightly forward and tightening herself about him, and he felt himself spurting inside her. As he did so, he uttered—thank the Virgin—a fairly innocuous groan of, “Ah, my beautiful Milady!”

Also entirely unsurprising was the fact that she granted him no time for lingering inside. Rochefort had scarcely finished spending himself before she had climbed off him. Standing now beside his chair, she was cheerfully squeezing her breasts back into place inside their armor of corset and bodice.

He guessed he ought to find it reassuring that she felt no need to pamper him. He should take it as a sign that she still viewed him as a colleague with whom she’d just conducted a mutually profitable transaction. Most likely, the only men she caressed at such a time were the victims she lured into falling in love with her.

Determined not to act as though he were any more overcome than she, Rochefort propelled himself to his feet. He would _not_ show in front of her that he felt anything resembling exhaustion. All the same, while he restored his person and his clothing to their proper alignments, he thought, _I feel as if someone just dropped a horse on top of me from the roof of Notre Dame._

He grinned as his thoughts traveled further along those nonsensical lines. _And if any such outlandish fate befell me, the horse in question would doubtless be the absurd yellow nag which that troublemaking pest of a Gascon was riding when he blundered into us at Meung._ *

He and Milady had both restored their appearance of respectability by the time a knock sounded on Rochefort’s office door. The timing was so perfect that Rochefort felt certain the person who was knocking had been listening at the door—and had possibly also been spying through the keyhole—and had waited to knock until they felt certain that the assignation was ended.

That assumption of his soon seemed confirmed. The young page of the Cardinal who opened the door in reply to Rochefort’s command blushed nearly as vivid a red as the uniform tabards of His Eminence’s guards. Manfully the youth strove to not permit a squeak in his voice as he announced, “His Eminence the Cardinal commands that Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort attend upon him in his office.”

“Thank you,” answered Rochefort, smiling slightly at the lad’s painfully obvious embarrassment. “I will be with His Eminence directly.”

Milady de Winter accepted Rochefort’s arm when he offered it to her and strolled with him out into the corridor. As he bowed to her then and kissed her hand, she told him in her most playful tones, “Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte. Commend me to His Eminence.”

He answered in the way he usually did when Milady said that to him. “Commend me to Satan, Milady.”

Striding through the corridors toward the antechamber of His Eminence’s office, the Comte de Rochefort reasserted in his mind the dominance of the man he wanted to be.

In this effort, he was aided by all the pairs of eyes that followed him along the way. He was followed by the eyes of His Eminence’s guardsmen, the Cardinal’s courtiers and his suppliants. They watched him with admiration, with envy or with fear.

They all saw the Rochefort he wanted to be; the Rochefort he knew he truly _was_. All of them saw the trusted confidential agent of His Eminence Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duke de Richelieu, First Minister of France. They saw the Cardinal’s agent, the Cardinal’s tool, the Cardinal’s creature. Perhaps some of them even saw the Cardinal’s friend.

What they did not see was a man who had any interest in words such as “everlasting love.” Such words, Rochefort told himself, were nothing but a joke—except when it came to the service and devotion he had pledged to his master.

Rochefort was a man whose soul was given to the master he had promised to serve. He was not a man who ever hoped to find a woman who would stay by him and love him. And he was not, he was profoundly not, he was not in any possible sense, a man who ever dreamed about running barefoot in a field full of wildflowers.

 

Note: 

* For “the absurd yellow nag which that troublemaking pest of a Gascon was riding when he blundered into us at Meung,” see Chapter One of _The Three Musketeers_ , “The Three Presents of Monsieur d’Artagnan the Elder.”


End file.
